I Still Hear Your Voice
by amor-remanet
Summary: A hunt gone awry robs Dean of his hearing; Castiel does the best thing he can think of to make things better.


As far as hunts could be routine these days, this one was supposed to be — all they had to do was chase down some of Castiel's brothers and try to capture one in holy oil — just one, and they didn't need to kill him; they only needed to figure out what he knew about where Zachariah was hiding out, lurking and waiting, and maybe what the "gigantic, shady douchebag from Planet Vulcan" (as Dean had taken to calling him) was planning. Any information they could get would have been good. But as Dean charged toward Vametiel, Castiel's blade in his hand, the other angel didn't move; all he did was cock his head and smirk. Castiel felt Jimmy's stomach drop, as though a frozen, leaden brick had been thrown down into it — and, just as he suspected, Vametiel opened his mouth.

The sound that emerged shook the ground within a mile radius — the screech of Vametiel's true voice. Castiel yanked Sam to the ground and stretched out his wings, covering them both — even with that shield, Jimmy's ears pounded as the strain of hearing a pure angelic scream drove into them; they were different sensations, hearing Castiel's true voice as it offered tests and offers and consolation, and hearing Vametiel's curses, the Enochian spells meant to destroy — there came a flash of blinding light; the noise ceased — and when Castiel put his wings back, only Dean remained, knocked onto his back. His hand bled on the ground, and his banishing sigil stood out in stark contrast to the pavement — but blood leaked from his ears as well. Castiel would be the first to admit that his knowledge of humans was not always the best, but he knew that bleeding ears meant trouble.

"Dean?" he said, pointing to them. "…You appear to have suffered aural damages."

Dean said nothing back, only furrowed his brow. Castiel glanced up to Sam, who tried saying, "Come on, Dean. It's not that complicated. Your ears are bleeding."

Dean shook his head, and Castiel realized: he couldn't hear them.

"Mister… I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"

Castiel's eyes darted from the doctor to Dean, who sat on the examination table, alternately furrowing his brow and sticking his fingers into his ears, trying to pick out something that wasn't there. What wasn't really lying, the angel tried to remind himself — true, Sam and Dean were using false identifications and entirely fictional insurance information, but Sam had agreed to go and handle that — but this wasn't lying. It was simply choosing with parts of the truth to present and when. Swallowing thickly, and hating the hesitance in his voice, he answered, "…Jimmy Novak."

(Maybe he wasn't Jimmy, but as the mental presence of his vessel reminded him, he was wearing Jimmy, and if worse came to worst, Castiel had Jimmy's driver's license in his trench-coat pocket.) Looking over the doctor's shoulder, Castiel spotted Dean toying with his ears again. They'd been cleaned and tended to, and Castiel supposed that there was no immediate danger in this, but he still gave Dean a Look, one meant to cow the elder Winchester into putting his hands down.

The doctor frowned, looked Castiel up and down, and, finally, gave the angel a curt nod. "Right, well. Mister Novak, as you aren't Mister Shackleford's family, I'm not required by law to allow you to be in here… but he asked for you, inasmuch as he can, at the moment."

Castiel tilted his head and shot the man the most bemused of all his expressions. "What do you mean?" he muttered, silently cursing the fact that he'd invested too much of his Grace in the skirmish to fly, much less peer into this man's thoughts. "Why couldn't he ask?"

A sigh escaped the doctor's lips. "The shock has left him temporarily deaf…" In a discomfortingly professional tone, he explained the injuries and how to look after Dean, and how long this was likely to last — but no medically sound advice could keep Castiel's heart from breaking when, on the drive back to the motel, with Sam at the wheel, Dean couldn't stop glaring at the Impala's speakers, as though willing them to play his Led Zeppelin louder. He turns the volume up and thumps the dashboard in frustration when, apparently, nothing happens for him, even though the rollick of "Travelling Riverside Blues" is near enough to deafen Sam and Castiel as well. Eventually, he slams his fist into the volume nob, and the only sound left is that of the tires on the pavement.

Frowning pensively, Castiel lowers Dean onto the bed, letting him sit there — he arches an eyebrow, but says nothing… and even if he could say something without straining himself, Castiel isn't certain that he would want to hear it. Dean has a habit for making confusing remarks in situations like this one, wherein he has no solid bearing on the world going on around him. With a shrug, Castiel sheds his trench-coat, his jacket, and his shirt and tie; he slips his fingers under the hem of Dean's t-shirt and coaxes it off, drops it in the pile of clothes on the floor.

This time, when he spreads his wings, Castiel does so slowly, rustling his long, white feathers and shaking them out. Dean's seen them before, and the expression on his face as he stares up at them is one of longing, rather than of awe — Castiel flexes them and rotates his shoulders, stretching out those muscles as well… and then he reaches one wing out, running its tip down Dean's cheek. He can't hear it, but Dean sighs, leaning his face further into this caress as Castiel leans his wing further toward his lover. Dean's skin is warm against his feathers, and Castiel shudders at the warmth of Dean's exhalations as they rustle through his barbs.

I love you, Dean, Castiel muses, bringing his other wing around now, trailing it down Dean's bare chest — and Dean mouths back, I know.


End file.
